Some people say they don’t see race — they claim to be color blind and that, with the election of a black President, we now live in a post-racial society.

I say I always see race. But I see it only in black and white. When I first began writing about race ten years ago, I couldn’t stop thinking about, writing about, or wanting to connect with black people. It felt like an obsession, and as I once heard Bruce Springsteen say, “…sometimes you have to get crazy with your obsessions.” (Let this be the only time a white guy is quoted in this blog.)

I’m hoping this blog will help me identify why I have always been so attracted to black people and black culture. Did it start with my fantasy of marrying Michael Jackson when I was 10 years old? Did it stem from memories of growing up mid-way through the civil rights era in Waterbury, CT, a diverse old industrial town ? Was it stewing when I told my parents I didn’t want to go to private high school? They were worried about me going down the wrong path. I was worried about being in a homogenized milk-toast pool of rich white kids.

All I know is the lid got blown off when I moved to Tulsa, Oklahoma in 2003, after living eighteen years as an adult in New York City. I had resided in the East Village when it was still a heavily Hispanic and Latino neighborhood, took daily subway rides where I literally rubbed elbows and all other kind of body parts I wished I hadn’t, with people of all races and ethnicities, and worked side-by- side with many black staff members in a homeless services agency. I went from that, to Tulsa, to a neighborhood that appeared white as far as the eye could see, to a city that was home to the horrific Tulsa Race Riot of 1921 that destroyed the affluent black Greenwood neighborhood—to a city that had Native Americans, Mexican Americans and African Americans, yet there didn’t seem to be too much mixing it up among these diverse groups of people.

Though I speak of diversity, the people I really cared about were black people. And when I got to Tulsa, I missed them. I mean, I really, really missed them. So, I signed on as a volunteer at The African American Resource Center at a Tulsa library on the North Side—the side that all the white people said to stay away from because of, you know, that’s where all the black people live. I also became a stalker. I approached random black people in public places like Target, or the supermarket. I struck up conversations with the African American owner of an upscale bakery. I did this just to say hello, and let them know (wink, wink) that I was a cool white person who wanted to connect with them. I started writing about my personal experiences with black people. It was the only outlet I could think of; the only way to try and make sense of my obsessive thoughts and actions. It was at this point, that I knew I’d never be normal again—that I could never just relax about black people and take my interactions with them in stride.

This blog, Wendy Jane’s Soul Shake, is where I get to reflect and share on my attraction to black people and black culture. And, I just know that my writings will, at times, or maybe all of the time, seem to patronize, exoticize, idealize, romanticize, or exhibit some sort of white-gaze racism even, but hopefully you will forgive me, right? I am thrilled to share my posts and short memoirs with you, and to make connections across the color lines of black and white. I look forward to hearing your comments and feedback.